


A Stitch In Time

by Vae



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-31
Updated: 2007-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:37:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vae/pseuds/Vae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A century on, Jack looks back</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stitch In Time

There's an old saying - no, not that one. Not the one about the end justifying the means, either, though I guess that could apply if you want it to. It's not the one I'm thinking of, though. There's another one, something about love and war. It'll come to me.

This is pretty much both, though I wasn't looking for love when I ended up back in Earth's second world war again. I think I can say pretty certainly that I've not gone looking for love in the past century or so of my life, and never on twentieth century Earth. It just gets complicated, you know? They've got such a narrow definition of everything.

That's never stopped love coming to look for me, and last time I was there, it's fair to say it caught up to me. Hard. And now, there's nothing left to stop me going back to find it again.

Ianto's dead, of course. Years ago, along with the rest of the team. Lisette never could understand how I loved him so much, but he was far past his prime when she first met him. I wasn't with her for long. I can't stay around to watch people die any more. It never gets any easier.

Jack, though, Jack was different. Jack never died. Not yet, anyway. I've done my research, and the most anyone's ever found is the burnt out remains of his plane. His Spitfire, sweet little kite, wish I'd seen her in the air. Temperamental beauty, and he made her dance, according to the reports. A dance that ended before she returned to earth, because no one ever found any trace of his body.

I've picked up a sweet kite of my own recently. She's called a Spitfire, too, though you'd never see the relationship to look at her. It's all in the handling. She's a demanding little bitch, but I can't fault her precision. Reminds me of a few women I've worked with, for and under. Over, above, alongside and I think you're following my meaning.

She doesn't let me down. I've had nearly a century to perfect the co-ordinates, and she drops us neatly into January 1941. I know the date, I know the time - the location's more of a gamble, based on projected flight paths and the site of the wreckage. Looks like it paid off.

It's not a day for anyone to die. It's beautiful: clear blue skies with the brightest white clouds, winter sun blazing down over the valleys, smooth green slopes spread out beneath me. It's the kind of day to remind the boys what they're fighting for, some idealised picture of a perfect homeland, perfect landscape, perfect villages, probably complete with perfect families having perfect meals and playing perfect games in their perfect homes. Nothing like reality, but no one fights for the sordid details of reality. They fight for ideals. We fight for ideals.

The cloaking kicks in milliseconds before the radio connects, and it's his voice I hear first, crisp, controlled, issuing orders. He's already sighted the enemy, and every sinew of my body, every scrap of flight training I've ever had screams at me to help him. With this technology, it would be so easy, the work of moments, targeted missiles they'd never even see, couldn't ever trace. My hand's already hovering over the switch, but I can't. Can't risk it, can't twist the timeline here and now. This time's too fragile, and so close to rift activity, all I can do is wait for the scene to play out as I know it must.

He takes them all, one by one, with yells of triumph and the cheers of his men echoing over the radio. All but the last one. Bringing up the rear, flying in from the west, hidden in the glare of the sun, dropping from the clouds like some malevolent bird of prey, and that's when I'm treated to a virtuoso display of his flying skills. A curt command to his men to return to base, and then radio silence, and it's dazzling. Dancing's not enough of a word to describe it, a deadly courtship flight with destruction promised in every swoop, every dive, every climb. If I wasn't seeing it with my own eyes, I'd never believe such primitive technology capable of such grace. He guides her through impossible moves, rolls that should have torn her wings off, twists that should have sent her careening to the ground, engines screaming, but somehow, she's there for him, meeting his demands, following his lightest touch, his muttered encouragement.

Until the burst of shot that rips through the fuselage and ruptures the fuel line, setting the engine into a blaze of flame, and he's going down. Faster than I'd expected, so suddenly that it shocks me into delaying for vital seconds before activating the retriever beam to bring him in. 

It's not as neat as it was with Rose. There's less time to prepare. He falls to the deck in a huddled tangle of limbs, breathing ragged and harsh, skin red and blistered from burns, hands shaped as if still holding the controls. Above us, radios explode into an outraged babble of swearing and not one, but two planes hit the ground. That's not my concern any more. History's on track, his men have survived, the Germans won't be returning to report, and my concern is the injured man just yards away from me, unable to draw enough breath even to scream his pain.

Captain Jack Harkness. The original, genuine article. There's a certain irony to the knowledge that I wore that name for years before he was even born, have worn it for longer than he ever will, and yet it's his far more than it has ever been mine. Looking at him now, I can barely believe that I ever claimed it.

There's nowhere I can touch him without causing more pain. All I can do is crouch down next to him, as close as possible without any physical contact, and try to catch his eye. If he can manage to get one open.

"Jack." I pitch my voice low and warm, forcing aside any uncertainty. It's been well over a century since I last saw him, talked with him, danced with him. Kissed him. For him, it's been less than twenty-four hours, but he's still not expecting me here. Poor guy's not even aware of where 'here' is. He freezes for a heartbeat, blistered lips soundlessly forming the shape of the name I told him was mine. It's not, of course, but it's close enough.

Watching him, it's harder and harder not to touch him. "You got him, Jack," I say softly, letting some of my pride in him into my tone. "Jerry went down, and your men all got back safe. We're gonna get help for you now. Just hold on, hold still for me."

I don't know how I'm going to explain this to him. Something'll come, when the occasion arises. I do know that I can't keep him with me - not forever, not even for long, but he's mine for now, and we'll make the most of that.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my [table](http://woodsong-1978.livejournal.com/61195.html), prompt "All's Fair in Love and War". Many thanks to lvs2read for beta services.


End file.
